sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 219

I hate flying. Hate it. Such a hassle. Fighting traffic to the airport and finding parking. Then waiting in line to check in. Then waiting in another line where they make you empty your pockets and take off your jacket and shoes and belt and put everything into a tub for screening before you’re pointed into the Whizbang 9000 Deluxe Hijacker Detector to dutifully assume the position. Then there’s that one last line to wait in along with the rest of the herd when you finally board the plane. Moo. I’d probably enjoy the experience more if I flew first class but the cheapskate in me chokes at the expense, remembering the Oldsmobile Man’s observation that the nose of the plane gets wherever you’re going just as fast as the tail does so the ‘complimentary’ cocktails and snacks and marginally wider and deeper seats really weren’t worth the extra scratch. But exactly two weeks ago, as I inched through the expansive first class section of my plane then wedged my behind into my more-than-snug aisle seat back in coach I began questioning Pop’s sage advice. I shook off the thought, though. Didn’t matter. My ticket was bought and paid for and I already had enough on my mind as I buckled in and switched my phone to Airplane Mode. I was heading to Arizona again. Down to the house in Sunset Acres one more time. But this time would be different than all the rest. Very different.

The first time I visited Sunset Acres was back in ’87 when I was still married to the Blonde and we were living in LA, San Pedro to be specific. That year Mom and Dad had officially joined the ranks of the snowbirds and begun renting a place in the Acres to crash over the winter months of their retirements. The Blonde and I had a lovely hillside apartment in Pedro with an airy balcony overlooking the harbor so we weren’t exactly slumming, but it was still a welcome break for her and me to get away from the crush of the city and relax for a week or so every now and again in the much slower pace of a ‘senior lifestyle community.’

The folks picked the Acres because it was where my favorite Aunt and Uncle had moved to spend their golden years. All it took was for Mom and Dad to visit them once during the middle of yet another brutally cold and snowy NoDak January and the hook was set. The very next year they found a double-wide on a permanent pad near the relatives that would rent by the month. Newish, the house was actually pretty nice and was close to the pool and the rec center and the clubhouse. They rented the same place for a couple months every winter for four years or so after that then decided they wanted to start staying longer, and buying a place made more financial sense than renting. Found themselves a sweet mid-‘70s custom-built double-wide mobile on a big lot just a block from the golf course with a backyard view of Superstition Mountain. Picked it up and wintered happily there for years, Mom soldiering on alone after Dad passed back in ’07. But then in ’18 she surprised everyone when she suddenly sold the place and bought a ritzy-snitzy stick-built house just up the street on a triple-lot directly east of the fourteenth green. Had a picture-book view westward all the way up to the tee box and beyond, the manicured fairway framed on either side by palm trees swaying seductively in the warm desert breeze. She told us she knew it was an extravagance, but that she wanted to treat herself to something nice. Said she loved lounging on her patio at sunset, leisurely sipping her Bailey’s on ice and watching the stars shyly begin to twinkle as the evening sky cooled from pumpkin-orange to indigo-blue. We told her she didn’t have to explain anything to us. Because she didn’t.

Big Sis and I had always been thankful Mom had done so well on her own as she’d aged but last summer—her ninetieth—we’d both noticed her memory issues were worsening more rapidly than ever before. Beyond that she was also experiencing substantial balance issues, falling down more and more often, alarmingly. We were also concerned she wasn’t eating like she should be or getting out and about anymore or taking her medicines like she was supposed to so it was clear what needed to happen. We made The Decision.

The Beehive got angry when we told her. Angrier than I think I’d ever seen her when we said the time for a change had come. That we’d decided it was in her best interest to move her to New Sludgoville where both of us were living now along with several of her grandchildren and even her first great-grandchild. That she was done flying solo and we’d be getting rid of both of her houses. That Big Sis would take care of the NoDak operation and I’d deal with the one in Arizona and in the meantime she’d crash with either one of us until we found her an apartment at a local assisted-living center. And finally, based on medical advice, we were taking her keys away and selling both her cars. And that that was the name of that tune.

I’ll never forget how her face hardened when she realized we weren’t kidding. How her dark Native eyes first filled with red embers of rage until the tears came and put out the fires as she sadly turned away.

“Fine,” she’d hissed to no one in particular, and our newest sludgo family adventure began.

It’s hard for me to believe that was nine months ago. Time flies when you’re having fun. Mom moved in with me for a while until we found her new digs, a two-bed/two-bath apartment perched on the corner of the top floor of a local senior center. The space features big rooms and high ceilings with windows to match that offer panoramic views of the foothills and the river and thankfully, more glorious sunsets she can enjoy sipping on her Bailey’s at the end of the day. Big Sis and I thought it smartest to close up the NoDak place first because it was where most if not all of Mom’s sentimental stuff was kept—the trinkets and treasures and clothes and photos and furniture gathered after living in sludgoville all of her life—so she took the lead and covered moving all that. And now with the North Dakota cleanup complete it was my turn to get to work in Arizona.

So I bought myself a one-way ticket. First one-way I’d ever bought in my life. Felt weird checking in with no bags and just my satchel filled with fresh underwear and my computer and toothbrush but, oh well. The plan was to fly down to Sunset Acres and clear the place of Mom’s belongings—her clothes and shoes and quilts and especially her sewing machine—then shove it all into her ’22 Toyota RAV4 and haul the whole show back up to New Sludgoville over the Sunday and Monday of Memorial Day weekend. Nine-hundred and fifty-some miles driveway-to-driveway, much of it two-lane and all of it traveled by my lonesome. Yep. That was the plan.

Hoo Boy.